


forget the politics of living alone

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-16
Updated: 2013-03-16
Packaged: 2017-12-05 12:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/723379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the Les Mis kink meme: "Combeferre/Enjolras/Courfeyrac... anything with these three please!" [<a href="http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/11823.html?thread=4423983#t4423983">x</a>]</p>
            </blockquote>





	forget the politics of living alone

Enjolras has class late. The sky through the lecture hall windows gradually darkens, and by the time he steps out of the building it’s pitch black.

But there’s a crack of light under his apartment door when he gets home, and he scrapes his keys in the lock.

The light is from Combeferre’s desk lamp, illuminating what looks to be a half-written essay, a pad of scrawled notes and a dozen printouts. His laptop is half-closed, its heater humming. The whole arrangement conspicuously suggests that he was once working, but now he’s in his desk chair with Courfeyrac in his lap, the pair making out lazily. 

As Enjolras watches Courfeyrac pulls away – Combeferre chases his mouth forward almost automatically – and begins to whisper something in Combeferre’s ear. Whatever it is it makes Combeferre smile and his eyes flutter shut, and it looks so intimate, so affectionate that Enjolras almost feels he’s intruding.

(He used to feel like that, like he didn't belong, back when _this_ started. He tries not to anymore, at least not visibly, because whenever Combeferre notices he'll frown ever so slightly, glasses tilting up with the motion. Courfeyrac only looks sad when he thinks Enjolras isn't looking.)

But the pair look up when he shuts the door and the grin Courfeyrac gives him tells him he’s doing anything but.

“Hi,” says Courf. His mouth is red.

The television is on, and the quiet murmur of some shitty game show is the only noise in the entire apartment. (Courfeyrac likes to leave the television on at all times. Enjolras will protest about the environmental impact, and Combeferre will murmur something about really not wanting to watch _Project Runway_ for the third time that week, but nobody really minds.) Enjolras drops his satchel onto the floor, toes off his shoes and hangs up his coat, and all the while he can feel two gazes on his back.

“Come over here,” says Combeferre, softly. There’s a faint flush high in his cheeks and his glasses are knocked askew, and Enjolras wonders how long they’ve been like this, just kissing and whispering and waiting for him.

He barely notices that he’s walking closer until he’s right in front of the desk and leaning down just slightly, and then Combeferre is curling a hand around the back of his neck and Courfeyrac is tilting his head up and reaching to tug at Enjolras’ shirt simultaneously, and they’re both pulling him in – and Courfeyrac’s mouth is soft and warm under his own. 

Sometimes Courf kisses desperately, the slick slide of lips no more than a precursor to that same mouth around a cock; sometimes he kisses chastely, a gentle press when Enjolras walks into the Musain to say hello (and he'd kissed that way the first time they'd ever done so, Courf approaching him tentatively and Combeferre speaking in hushed tones, _we just want to try it, won't you let us please_ -); and sometimes he kisses like _this_ , long and deep and yearning, no urgency or intent.

Enjolras hums softly as he opens his mouth under Courfeyrac’s, and Courf tastes like Combeferre’s ridiculous herbal tea when he licks into Enjolras’ mouth. There’s something about that that makes Enjolras smile into the kiss. And there’s _something_ about the way Courfeyrac gasps quietly but involuntarily against his mouth, fingers twisting in the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt; Enjolras sucks on his tongue ever-so-lightly and swallows the sound, and in his periphery he can see that Combeferre has ducked his head and is mouthing at Courfeyrac’s neck – there’s something about that that makes arousal pool low in his stomach.

It's practised and it's slow. Courfeyrac sucks at Enjolras' lower lip and makes a noise low in his throat and Enjolras isn't really thinking anything at all, just that he could stay like this forever.

And they do for what feels like hours, the television and Courfeyrac’s occasional hitched breath the only sounds. Someone groans softly. It’s warm and it’s familiar and at some point Combeferre begins to card his fingers through the hair at the nape of Enjolras’ neck. 

When Courfeyrac finally, finally pulls away and Combeferre tips his head up, a reddening bruise left on the pale skin of Courfeyrac’s neck in his wake, it’s as if Enjolras wakes.

But none of them can bring themselves to move or to ruin this moment, to make that full transition from dream to consciousness, and so Courfeyrac presses his face into Enjolras’ neck and Combeferre strokes his hair and Enjolras -- Enjolras is content.


End file.
